


We'll Make Our Own Tradition (The Cap and Gown Remix)

by wynnesome



Category: Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616
Genre: ADDITIONAL CONTENT INFORMATION IN END NOTE, Anal Fingering, Anal Play, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Dirty Talk, Domestic Bliss, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Identity Porn, M/M, No Side Pairings, Oral Sex, Other, Rimming, Roleplay, Tony Stark's Red Thong of Justice, but not the typical kind of ID porn, no infidelity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-01
Updated: 2020-03-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:41:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22876465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wynnesome/pseuds/wynnesome
Summary: It’s Steve’s and Tony’s anniversary.They have a date for dinner, but the workday comes first.Steve’s includes a very important business lunch.But the person who makes a beeline for him as he waits at the bar isnotwho he thought he'd be meeting...
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 19
Kudos: 81
Collections: 2020 Captain America/Iron Man Remix Exchange





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jellybeanforest](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jellybeanforest/gifts).
  * Inspired by [A Traditional Type of Guy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20751380) by [jellybeanforest](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jellybeanforest/pseuds/jellybeanforest). 



> This fic is a remix of "A Traditional Kind of Guy" (https://archiveofourown.org/works/20751380) by jellybeanforest (https://archiveofourown.org/users/jellybeanforest/).
> 
> The story is not connected to any canon events, but I placed it sometime around 2000-early 2001, within Avengers v3. The Avengers live in the Mansion, and it’s a generally happy team time. Steve Rogers is not yet known to the public as Captain America, so he could do philanthropy work with the Maria Stark Foundation as himself, and not be connected to Cap. The couple of references to cell phones and text messaging take into account some question-asking about what those were like around that time, and I similarly looked into the general timelines of wifi and laptop computers for that brief appearance. Steve and Tony wear wedding rings and consider themselves married, but gay marriage was not yet legal. Anything else that doesn’t match up with canon or time period, well, it’s fic, and it's Earth-616, not our home reality. :D
> 
> Thanks almighty to The_Casual_Cheesecake (https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_casual_cheesecake) for alpha reading, art terminology, and the restroom signs (no spoilers; you’ll know ‘em when you get there). And to captainstars (https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainstars) for being my guinea pig to read it without having been in on the brainstorming, to give me a blank-slate reaction to how the ID porn came across. And to both Cake and swtalmnd (https://archiveofourown.org/users/swtalmnd) for their unremitting support through the writing, as this “ficsplosion” consumed my life.
> 
> And also, much, much love and thanks to the Cap/IM comm mods for all of your above-and-beyond effort involved in running these events.
> 
> _***To meet the 2020 Remix Exchange event deadline, this fic was originally posted in an abridged version, as chapters 2-3 only. The fic is now complete, with its “short form” intact within the bookends of the opening and closing chapters (1 and 4). For the sake of preservation, some additional explanation from the original Author’s Note has been transplanted into the opening note of Chapter 2, which was the beginning of the fic as of that time of first posting.***_

“... _mmm, nnnuhhh_ …”

Tony protested the insistent shrill of their 6am alarm, equally insistently snuggling further into the blankets and Steve’s side. Whether waking up or just hitting the sack after an extended push, he was never at his most coherent at this hour of the morning. 

Steve shut off the loud beeping and held him, relishing his lax, sleep-warmed weight, the comforts of skin-closeness and body smells. Fiercely guarded as a luxury were these quiet, private interludes -- as well as others more athletic and raucous -- that they shared here in the intimacy of their bed, when they didn’t have to be sharing each other with the world.

Today was a busy day, though, and a special one, and they couldn’t linger. They’d make up for it tonight. 

He stroked down the lean line of Tony’s side, then toyed with his tousled hair. “Morning, sweetheart. C’mon, no five more, five more minutes, today.”

Tony grumbled and  _ harrumphed _ again, managing a somewhat comprehensible, “M’rning” at the end of it. Punctuating one last, long, inhale of Steve’s collar bone with a soft, mustache-tickly kiss, he rolled out from under the covers and off his side of the bed.

Steve did the same, standing and watching Tony yawn and scratch at his chest, then moving into a series of limbering stretches, thoroughly enjoying the excellent view of Tony’s ass in his snug, dark boxer briefs as he ambled off and disappeared into the bathroom. 

After using the other bath for his own morning necessities, Steve slipped into a comfortable set of sweats, collecting his shield case, gym duffel, and a garment bag containing his formal day suit. Once he’d seen Tony off, his day would begin with a workout, so he’d get his shower later.

They’d considered moving out of the Mansion together, but both enjoyed the tight-knit feeling of living with their fellow Avengers, sharing communal social space and meals, which they still did with regularity. Still, one of the concessions to married life they’d made a year or so in was to knock down a wall between two of the bedrooms, creating a self-contained suite; the second bedroom became their living room, and they’d put in a cozy kitchen, which was where Steve now headed.

First things first, as unconscious by now as rubbing his thumb against the palm side of the ring on his finger, Steve started the coffee, then got his bacon and eggs frying on the stovetop. With those sizzling nicely, he cut up some fruit and laid out slices of bread for toast, dropping them in the slots just before transferring the hot food to his plate. As the toast popped up crusty and golden brown, he set two diagonal-cut slices on a smaller plate for Tony, buttered up his own, lined the fruit around both plates, and--

They were a well-oiled machine.

Here was Tony, striding in briskly, looking vastly more put together than he had 25 minutes ago, now buttoned into a snazzy dress shirt and slacks, with his suit jacket slung over one arm. Steve turned from the counter, meeting his approach for their awake-good morning kiss, soapy clean, minty-fresh, and aftershave-tanged.

Add in the inviting meaty, grainy aromas of the hot food, the snap of the frying oil, the warm light-toned wood and appliances of their kitchen, and… It was domestic, it was their life, they fought evil and came home and woke up together to this, and there was so much remaining to be changed for the better in the world, but it was Steve’s bliss.

He sank into the kiss, curling their tongues together and sucking gently at Tony’s bottom lip, drinking in his happy moan. When he let him go, it was reluctantly, with a sigh and a smiling stroke of the backs of his fingers down the ornately patterned red and gold silk tie he’d given Tony last Christmas.

Steve liked seeing Tony in something he’d given him, Tony liked wearing something that had come from Steve, and Tony spent enough time in business and formalwear that ties were a wardrobe staple. With a basic men’s fashion primer from Jan as foundation, Steve’s artistic eye consistently led him to tastefully daring selections of pattern and color that Tony would never have chosen himself; it had made a tie given on any of their special occasions a much less banal gift than it might have seemed.

Here in their own apartment, they were free to eat on their feet, hips propped against countertops, with no one to get in the way of, and no reproachful eyes from Jarvis to receive. Steve tucked into his bacon and eggs with gusto, while Tony munched his lightly buttered toast and nibbled at the fruit, refilling his coffee mug halfway through. He topped off his smaller meal with a single stolen bite off the end of one of Steve’s strips of bacon, earning himself a playful smack on the hand, and repaying that in turn with a pout.

It had taken time, but Steve had come to accept that not everyone was a big breakfast eater, and that didn’t have to be a habit that needed correcting. While Tony’s eating and sleeping habits could certainly be irregular, and he drove himself hard and sometimes overreached, there was no way for anyone to maintain the kind of sleek, toned physique he kept, year after year, especially with the heart problems he’d been through, without taking generally solid care of his body.

Steve bumped his hip against Tony’s when he started water running for the dishes, chivvying him away from the sink with an affectionate squeeze to his shoulder. There was no need for perfect division of cooking and cleanup chores between them, especially when it was just a pan and a couple of plates and mugs, and Tony was in his nice office clothes. 

“Meetings all day?” Steve asked while he washed. He glanced over at Tony, who had put the butter back in the fridge and was settling several feet down from the sink, leaning with his back to the counter with one leg crossed over the other at the ankle and his arms in a relaxed fold.

“No, just one consultation over at Solutions, and then I’ll be back here working in the lab. You?” 

“Nope, not meetings all day for me either,” Steve gave back with a little cheek, gesturing at his sweats with a sudsy hand. “Workout, couple of briefings at SHIELD, and one lunch meeting. Probably catching up on some team reports after that. Oh, reservation’s at that new place you recommended. What’sitcalled, ‘Platter?’”

Tony’s lips and brow rolled inward the way they did when he was trying to stifle a laugh. “‘Plate.’ Decent food, swank, trendy, post-modern... You'll hate it." He smirked, knowingly.

Probably, but Tony's recommendations were always spot-on for the occasions when Steve had to wine and dine someone who wouldn't feel properly catered to at one of his more comfortable haunts.

"So who's the lunch, again?"

“One of our high-level donors for the hospital renovations. Um, DeWard?” Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the way Tony’s attention perked at the mention of the hospital project. Steve was eager to see this endeavor moving one step closer to reality, too. He was gratified by the response to their fundraising drive through the Maria Stark Foundation, and filled with hope for the children and families who would receive top-notch care through the expanded wing and its new state-of-the-art diagnostic equipment and surgical suite.

Tony’s response was immediate and enthusiastic. “Oh, yeah, it’s great we’re getting them on board.” The name seemed to mean something to him where it didn’t to Steve, but that wasn’t surprising. Granted, Steve had high-echelon contacts all the way to the White House, but those were more person-to-person connections, and primarily military. Nothing like Tony, who had been raised rubbing elbows with the wealthy and powerful, and was tied into business and social circles from Hollywood to Washington to Wall Street, and several other continents.

“People you know?”

Peripherally, again, he caught Tony’s shrug. “Crossed paths a few times. East Hills family, high-society types, old money. Made their fortune in coal and steel a few generations back, but there’ve been some scandals more recently.”

“So what am I, walking into some kind of real-life soap opera?” Even if so, he could handle it, especially now, given a heads-up. It was worth some fuss and bother if these people were pledging a major contribution for the hospital, even if they were only doing it for the tax write-off and a big brick in the benefactors’ wall.

“I doubt it. That part’s all on the daughter. Your basic black sheep.”

Steve scrubbed at the frying pan, filing away the details as Tony continued.

“Thumbed her nose at the family when she dropped out of college and ran off to Tinseltown in her late teens. Bought and possibly couched-surfed her way to B-movie stardom, got in with the fast crowd; drugs, parties. Three divorces and two abortions--”

“Why do we  _ know _ these things,” Steve cut in, wrinkling his face in disgust. 

“--by age 24, ah, you know how we Americans cherish our success stories…” Tony’s rejoinder was laced with so much irony that he may as well have been wearing the armor.

“Anyway, the father finally cut her off after she was sentenced and served a short jail term for her second drug-DWAI. Did a stint in rehab after she got out, but it didn’t stick, and she was back to partying as wild as ever, minus the car keys.”

“Then about three years ago, daddy became dearly departed; rumors even had her implicated in foul play, but turned out to be just the tabloids and nothing ever came of it. Mother took her back into the fold and she’s kept herself a little less in the spotlight these days, got herself clean, finished a business degree, and went into the company. Sits next to her mom on the board, now. Seems like she’s finally settled down some, but still has a reputation as a cutthroat -- a real maneater, not someone you want to get on the bad side of. So as you might guess, the philanthropy isn’t so much her area. I highly doubt she’d show. I’d say it’ll probably be the matriarch you’ll end up meeting with.”

“Quite the history.” With deliberate motions, Steve placed the last of the utensils in the drying rack, and toweled off his hands. He kept his voice level, and his gaze toward the sink. “You know a lot about her.”

Maybe they’d been closer than Tony was letting on, but why Tony would think he had to downplay or hide that… His curiosity was piqued, yes, but he’d like to think Tony knew that Steve didn’t feel jealous or threatened by his previous relationships. The idea that he might not left Steve’s breakfast sitting uneasily in his stomach. 

He darted another look sideways. Tony’s posture had stiffened, his shoulders higher, and his arms crossed tighter to his body. Whatever it was, something about this was definitely bothering him.

“There was a lot of notoriety. Made a big splash in the media once, and then it was a new circus every time they got her in their sights.” A defensive edge had crept into Tony’s voice. “Just stuck with me, I guess.”

Steve wanted to kick himself in his own insensitive ass. 

Tony Stark, who was no stranger to unflattering media scrutiny; Tony, who knew firsthand how rough it was to lose parents, even where the relationship wasn’t on the best of terms; Tony, who’d faced his own personal hell of addiction, losing everything and hitting rock bottom in his battle with alcohol. (Steve remembered too well what the worst had been like with Tony on the streets and in the bottle -- and being pushed away when all he’d wanted was to be there to help…)

...of course this would all resonate with Tony.

He turned to face his husband, feeling like a heel for dredging all this up with such terrible timing.

Tony had uncrossed his arms,  intently examining  the nails of one hand for a moment before dropping them both to rest beside his hips, his fingers curling down over the lip of the countertop. His stance was the picture of nonchalance, but he had a crafty little twist to his mouth and his eyes glinted bright. “Some of us keep up with more than the baseball stats, you know.” 

Oh. Well. That could have stung, once would have sliced, but it didn’t anymore. Steve might forever feel like a man of two eras, but he’d never stopped  studying up during the entirety of his time in this one, and he was well aware that at this point, his knowledge of history and current events was high above average.

With, however, a single exception: Steve was outspoken in his distaste for celebrity gossip; he found it patently distasteful and intrusive, and he did go out of his way to avoid the so-called news outlets that were purveyors of that particular brand.

Tony’s joke had laid it on thick, but it was funny, and founded in truth, and Steve let it roll right off. Just then, he was simply awash with relief at seeing Tony’s good humor reasserting itself after the way Steve had put his foot in it, and ready to make sure this little hangup was nipped in the bud, leaving no black mark to besmirch their special day.

“Hey,” he breathed. One step, two, and he was in front of Tony, cupping his shoulders and sliding down his arms, asking for his hands, picking them up into his own when Tony was unresisting. His right thumb moved unerringly to where Tony’s ring sat above the knuckle on his left, stroking circles over the metal just the same as he did with his own. They were two halves of the same touchstone.

“I love you. Thank you for all the information. I’m sorry you had to think about any of that today.”

Tony’s eyes went wide, squeezed shut, and then he reopened them to face Steve squarely, the laxity of his hands clamping down into a vice-grip for an instant, before settling into a sure, steady hold. “I love you too. You’re right, just could have done without some of those memories cropping up.”

“Well, tonight we’ll celebrate another year of good ones,” Steve said determinedly. He pulled Tony into a hug, smoothing both hands down from wide shoulder blades to narrow hips, both for the contact and to be mindful of not wrinkling his shirt, till his smallest fingers came to rest against belt loops and supple-grained leather. “Happy anniversary, babe. I’m so thankful for another year with you.”

Tony’s fists were a hot double clutch in the back of Steve’s sweatshirt. He clung devoutly, burying his face against Steve’s neck, and rumbling against his throat. “Me too. Three, five, eight... So much. Happy anniversary, sweetheart.” He pulled away, color high and hectic in his cheeks.

Steve eyed him askance, abjectly failing to keep a straight face. “That’s a math joke, isn’t it. You just made a math joke at me.”   
Tony burst out laughing, hands up in mock surrender, all traces of melancholy seemingly melted away. “And you recognized it. Just a little Fibonacci, not gonna lie. Great way to describe things that spiral outward to infinity.”

And that was how Tony blasphemed against good taste, making philosophy of his science, and one of the most poetic things Steve had ever heard.

He was flooded with a love so high and deep that it pierced at his heart, beating against all his terribly tender places.

“Pair of fuckin’ saps,” he grumbled through his grin.

“That we are,” Tony agreed. ““Have a great day, honey. You’ll knock ‘em dead at your meeting, and I’ll see you at dinner.”

“I’ll give it my best. You too.”

“You betcha.” Tony wagged a finger. “But I’m warning you, don’t be late, or I might just decamp for a torrid affair with a handsome stranger!”

Steve rolled his eyes. 

Last year, he’d been delayed on a covert SHIELD mission, then held over for debriefing, all under radio silence, unable to even call and let Tony know, till almost an hour past the time of their anniversary dinner reservation. Tony had been left waiting and wondering, and Steve had felt wretched. It had worked out a-ok in the end, but he’d had some big-time apologies to make, and fortunately for them both, happened to be able to open his mouth and produce a very convincing act of contrition in the form of a back-alley blowjob -- all in the guise of a philandering, polyamorous, bisexual alter-ego named Roger Stevens. Said illustrious gentleman having been raring to step in for the vile worm who would stand up his husband on their anniversary date. It’d been filthy and scorching, and he’d happily repeat the experience, if definitely not for the same reason.

That encounter had already become legend between them, and Tony was never going to let him live it down. 

“Not on your life. A whole Hydra base couldn’t keep me away. Not even another math joke.” 

“Now that’s unconditional.” Tony leaned in for a parting kiss, a salt-sweet peck, and Steve reached to retrieve his suit jacket for him. Handing it over, he was captured by the stretch and pull of Tony’s body as he extended each arm into a sleeve and arched out his chest to settle it across his shoulders.

“See you tonight.” He made his farewell, watching Tony pick up his briefcase and disappear out the door with a jaunty wave.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _For posterity: my comments from the original Author's Note for the fic, when this is how it opened, first posted in an abridged version (chapters 2-3 only), to meet the Remix Exchange event deadline._
> 
> **"AN OPEN LETTER TO MY LOVELY REMIX EXCHANGE RECIPIENT:**  
>  Jellybeanforest, I love your fics, and I hope you enjoy your gift. I have to admit, I did not successfully complete the writing of this story to the full extent that I plotted it, in time to post it fully realized for this deadline. These chapters are an abridged version that functions as a stand-alone remix, but there is an additional opening and an additional closing chapter that bookend these, adding a lot of content and a few more twists.
> 
> The good news on that front is that the opening chapter is entirely written, and the closing chapter is outlined and should be completed within (hopefully) another week or so. When that last chapter is finished, I am going to post the fic in its entirety, still gifted to you. Feel free to enjoy the fic now as posted, or to skip this version if you would prefer to wait and read it as fully envisioned, without being spoiled by reading the middle chapters first. **"**

Brightly lit with bare bulbs giving off a cool, blue-tinted tone, the restaurant was… about a quarter the size it appeared to be upon walking in, Steve realized, as he caught sight of his own double, and his vision compensated for the infinite-space effect of the mirrored back wall.

Every fixture and surface was white, transparent, or silvered; every edge and corner sharp enough to cut.

Tony had been right about him hating it. This style of decor was the very worst of all that was post-modern, in Steve’s estimation, and not only because it made him feel like the temperature had dropped ten degrees. So much glass and reflectivity, ironically, played havoc with clear lines of sight; seeing six of everything surrounding him like one of Enchantress’s illusions was worse than a boxed-in maze of blind corners and dead ends.

The hard, gleaming expanses were acoustically reflective, too, making it trickier to pinpoint sounds to their sources, especially with visual cues already partially displaced. The _tink ting_ of metal on porcelain and the decorous levels of conversation from the few occupied tables blended into an omnidirectional hum, like an indistinct jumble of radio chatter across the frequencies.

The combined impression left him itchy and on-edge, unable to dispel a sense of vulnerability to attack from any direction. It reminded him of days marching through fog, nerves strung tight on high alert to the possibility of impending ambush, yet knowing full well they’d never see it coming till it was upon them. 

He shook his head with a quick jerk -- he needed to not be bringing this here -- and made himself take another look around. Bright room. Open floor plan. Freestanding, brushed metal-topped tables. One front door. One hallway, presumably restrooms and kitchen entrance, and the near-certainty of a back door off the kitchen. Bar along one side, its dully sheened top matching the tables. The mirrored back wall; easy to mentally landmark as a boundary once noted. Light, natural conversation from several seated parties. Slight chill of air conditioning; he was glad for the layers of his formal suit. All the warmth lacking elsewhere was contained in the hints of various savory smells wafting on the air. No fog. No threats. If the unexpected presented itself, he’d evaluate and react accordingly. 

A white-suited host had stepped forward, indicating the offer of service with a discreet tilt of his head.

Having arrived fashionably early, Steve named his reservation, and nodded his intent to take a seat at the bar.

Attired in a crisp, white dress shirt bisected by a slim, silver-grey tie tucked away between two buttons, and matched to the calf-length waist-apron worn over slacks just a shade darker, the bartender looked like a perfectly fabricated embodiment of the ambiance. 

Steve ordered a club soda, no ice, and on impulse, requested a splash of cranberry, just to break the monotony with some color.

Maybe he was just keyed up with the anticipation -- and some degree of pressure -- for securing the support of this benefactor.

Settling onto one of the barstools, he immediately felt the unpleasant dig in two blunt points against his buttbones. The seats and backs of these were made of the same flat, burnished sheet metal as the bar and tabletops. He was beginning to see where the place got its name, and it wasn’t anything to do with the dishes the food was served on. Steve wasn’t one to need to be coddled, but if he was going to bother with furniture, he preferred it more forgiving than hunkering down on a hardpacked forest floor. 

He ignored the discomfort, doing a few controlled-breathing exercises while he sipped from the heavy, cut-glass tumbler, and took out his cell phone to send a text message to Tony:

_HOW’S INVENTING? REMEMBER EAT LUNCH. LOVE YOU._

The technology was a wonder, but pressing the tiny number keys several times to get to each letter drove him mad. So he tended to use the feature minimally, and keep his messages well under the short character limit. Checking in on Tony was worth the effort, though. It gave him something soft to think about that made him smile to himself, and melted down the rest of his unease in a way timed breathing couldn’t touch.

The phone buzzed lightly against his hand with Tony’s surprisingly quick reply. Steve hadn’t been sure he’d even see the message, much less respond.

_!!YES TRNSOUT MTG SOME1 2_  
_GOOD HOT LNCH FILLMEUP TIL DNR_

And an almost immediate follow-up:

_LOVE_

Banked warmth glowed from within. He ducked his head as though Tony were speaking right there in front of him, letting the short, sweet words pour out on his mellow voice like a long dollop of honey.

He was just putting away his phone when his hackles went up. 

Movement from the direction of the door caught his attention; maybe this was his lunch companion arriving. He’d been attuned for it the whole time, but the two-o’clock reservation was past even typical “late lunch” hours, and since he’d been at the bar, only one other small group had come in and been seated. This was a single individual, so possibly… No.

The newcomer was no middle-aged matron. Tall, lean, and angular, this woman strode in like a two-legged grudge on the prowl, all pugnacious strut, a parabolic antenna for the eyes.

Fabric shimmering from deep crimson to nearly black in the play of light, her dress fit tight to the waist, then flared out to below the knee, an hourglass made of two divergent Vs with barely a curve in sight.

“The upstairs lounge -- private party,” Steve heard her say to the host in a commanding tone that cut through the general hubbub, appropriating the man’s hand at a particular angle that indicated the passing of a tip.

Apparently, though, that wasn’t her first stop. 

The bar ran the full length of the wall, and Steve had the only occupied seat. She could take her pick with no need to acknowledge or pay him any mind, and none for him to make stilted small talk. Still, with every step, the more obvious it became that she was homing in on him like north to a compass needle.

 _Equal and opposite..._ the bit of science flitted across the background of his mind, still inadequate to explain the pull of watching her approach.

As she made her whipcord way across the floor, he could see that what he’d taken for the top half of her dress was actually a three-quarter-sleeved, one-button jacket, opening upward in a broad triangle that revealed the square-necked front of the dress itself. A wide, rectangular diamond and ruby bar-choker paralleled the flat neckline, with similar strands of gold-set jewels flashing at her ears, wrists, and fingers.

Closer yet, and he noticed the one piece that appeared mismatched: a narrow gold herringbone chain that hung down past the choker, disappearing beneath her clothing.

He had the belated thought to rise, out of basic courtesy to a lady, but then she was at his right side, standing over him and quelling his aborted motion with a heavy, possessive grip on his shoulder, finding anchor against bone through his jacket and shirt. Her right hand couldn’t span his thigh in quite the same manner, but the carmine-clawed arch of it, a palm’s width higher than his knee, was every bit as proprietary.

He inched his left leg over, closing what had been the sightly open fall of his knees, and looked up into arctic blue eyes above razor-slash cheekbones, the better to feed the exsanguination she wore on her lips.

“Well hellooo, aren’t you a real U.S.D.A. Prime cut? Tell me, beefcake, do you have a preferred pickup line, or can we just consider my claim to be staked?”

...he had… not been expecting that. Steve held back a bubbling up of embarrassed laughter.

He’d become reasonably practiced at turning down passes politely when he needed to, but while Captain America garnered a certain element of starry-eyed infatuation, it was still more often Tony who was approached by the bold women, all insinuating and handsy to just barely within socially acceptable bounds. Tony, who was adept at using his charm to remove and deflect, leaving them pink-cheeked or canary-eating smug, like he’d taken them for the ride of their lives without giving them an inch.

This one seemed equal parts predator and self-parody, but the fact was, she’d advanced on him like an occupying army, dripping with wealth, and self-assured like she owned everything around her, including him. Steve didn’t like feeling owned.

“Sorry to break it to you, but we’re two hundred years, plus, past the Oklahoma Land Rush, and also, not in Oklahoma. So if you wouldn’t mind?” He flicked his eyes down and then over, highlighting the two tracts of contested territory.

A toss of her head flipped and resettled the raven-dark, spiky layers that swept to one side on top of her head, leaving the short-clipped back and severely shaped sideburns unruffled. She barked out an indelicate cackle, unhanding him before his reach toward his shoulder could connect to do it for her. “Full points for creativity, professor. That’s the most scholarly rejection I’ve ever been dealt.”

“Here’s to getting schooled.” He lifted his glass in a toast, and took the last sip of his drink, wetting his lips but keeping his tongue pitched to the dry side of neutral. “Not a professor, though. I’m just kind of a history buff.” 

“Of course you are,” she agreed, with a mouth full of big, round, caramel-sugared vowels and sweet cream.

For some reason he had the idea she wasn’t taking him seriously.

With a cursory smoothing of her skirt, she folded herself onto the stool next to his, lifting a careless hand to beckon to the bartender. “Bring him another, and I’ll have… what’re you drinking, there, Buffy?”

“Club soda with cranberry,” he answered, half on autopilot with the sudden switch of gears. “But I-- wait--”

“Oh, perfect. The same, then.” For the first time, she sounded genuinely approving, like his choice of beverage had been made solely for her benefit.

And now it was too late to say “no thank you,” and he’d forgotten the “no ice,” and the bartender was already setting a fresh drink in front of each of them, and the glasses were sweating with condensation, and so was he.

“It’s all right, I know you’re not shooting me down, just making it a challenge. A merry chase.”

“No, I’m--” Steve was better with real runaway trains. He could just push his legs and arms and heart to pump faster until he caught up. “Look, thank you for the drink, but I am, actually. Declining your… offer.”

Which, when it came right down to it, she hadn’t ever straight-up made one, but there’d been no mistaking her intentions.

“Not that you aren’t a real catch,” -- _the kind they hit you with the instant your signature was dry --_ “but I’m married.”

She snickered, going sly. “Oh aren’t you just the sweetest thing. Are you really so naive? You can’t actually think that ever stopped anyone from having a good time.”

Steve had married the only person he wanted to have “a good time” with.

He thinned his lips. “ _Happily_ married. In fact, today’s our anniversary.” He flashed his ring, which also put on display the watch Tony had given him for his birthday the previous year. It had cost about a tenth as much as the model Tony had originally wanted to buy him, but he’d given in to Steve’s protests -- not gracefully, but he had. This woman didn’t know any of that, of course, but Steve loved it, and loved seeing its brushed-gold casing and chocolate brown leather strap lying against his wrist.

“It’s a ring around your finger, darling. Very tasteful, but much too small to shackle any _other_ parts of you. How many years?”

“Seven.” 

Her eyebrows arched and her glossed lips pursed. “There _is_ a reason they call it the ‘seven-year itch,’ you know. Surely after so long, you could be pardoned for seeking some variety to spice things up.”  
  
These insinuations were quickly becoming downright offensive. Even if he were available and interested, messing around with the likes of her seemed like a good way to _get_ an itch that lasted for seven years. All right, that thought was uncharitable, but she was continuing to rub him the wrong way. “Begging your pardon, ma’am, but my marriage is plenty spicy. I enjoy flavor, not getting burned. As I said. Happily.” He spoke with finality.

“Ma’am.” She chuckled, full and hearty. “I haven’t heard that one in… longer than your seven years, not from anyone who wasn’t getting paid to say it, anyway. Well, I suppose you’ve made yourself clear enough. My congratulations, my apologies, and my loss. You’re absolutely certain I can’t tempt you into just one little taste?”

Steve believed firmly in always holding onto hope, but this refusal was one he shouldn’t have to repeat. He worked his jaw in a circle and rolled his shoulders back, feeling something crawling between them, and the phantom sensation of being watched. Time was counting down, and he needed to extricate himself from her brazen pursuits before Mrs. DeWard could arrive to find him in this compromising position.

“Even if I were amenable, I’m here to meet someone on business. They’ll be here any minute, and I can’t be found, ah, flirting.” He struggled to remain tactful while holding a steely edge that should dissuade any further overtures.

She laughed again, but less unkindly. “Have no fear, there’s no chance of mistaking your rebuffs for flirtation, not from where I’m sitting.” She looked him up and down with a covetous gaze. “You’re impassable as a brick wall, and one I wouldn’t have minded hitting, full speed and full force!”

Unbelievable. There seemed to be no end, absolutely no limit, to her presumption. Steve had always admired confident women, but there were lines between confident, overly aggressive, and outright disrespectful, and in his book, she had crossed all of them. He shifted on his stool. The hot thrum of anger was beginning to steam him up, making him long for action, to cut loose and pound some pavement, or a punching bag.

“But I understand. Perception is everything, isn’t it, darling? I see that I should at least introduce myself to the man who has spurned my advances so definitively. To tell you the truth, I’m a little shocked you haven’t recognized me. I do have something of a reputation, even a degree of, shall we say, infamy, in some circles.”

A coy curve of her lips colored the words in dangerous shades as she proffered a hand. “I feel like I ought to be offended, but honestly, it’s surprisingly refreshing. You’re a breath of fresh air, as well as a tall drink of… soda water.”

He let her self-indulgent byplay slide right on past, ready to shake her hand, see her on her way, and ideally, have a precious minute or two to regroup before he had to make much more genteel conversation with a respectable lady.

Her palm was more upward-facing than typical for a handshake, and he fumbled in taking hold, clumsy with not being quite sure how to line up their grips. She solved it for him, clasping his fingers in her long, elegant ones and leaving him flummoxed when she unexpectedly lifted his hand and dragged her lips over its back. It was an urbane gesture made thoroughly indecent, an open-mouthed kiss that left a ring of damp over his knuckles.

The soft touch of her mouth was electric, delicate and daring, gentler by far than anything about her demeanor, and the shock that spiraled through him was beyond anything warranted even by the hint of hot, smooth, wetness from the inside of her lips. 

He’d felt off-balance around this woman from the beginning, but that had just intensified a hundredfold, and he couldn’t for the life of him place why he was reacting this way to the unwanted touch of an overfamiliar stranger.

“Starla Anne DeWard, and I do _so_ wish I could be at your service,” she said, low and husky, her lips still vibrating against the back of his hand, and her breath stirring up dust devils of helpless, shameful arousal whirling and eddying under his skin.

_Oh, shit._

His stomach plummeted. Dismay and confusion pulled him crossways like windshear. He was hot and cold and god-let-me-sink-into-the-ground mortified. _Cutthroat…_ _Maneater... not a good one to get on the wrong side of,_ he heard Tony’s assessment from that morning echo. 

Tony had been so sure it would be the older woman coming to meet with him today, the mother...

_Battle plans, contact with the enemy…_ shit, shit _shit_ , he was so fucked.

He had to find a way to salvage this. _Had_ to. He couldn’t go home empty handed, not only letting down Tony, but failing the families of the community.

She was eyeing him over the back of his hand, looking far too amused. “Starstruck? I have to admit, that’s more the kind of reaction I’m accustomed to. Perhaps you do know who I am, after all.”

Now that she’d announced herself, it seemed she was banking on him being impressed by her name and fame. He took a wild stab, a roughly calculated risk, knowing he might be making an even bigger fool of himself.

“You were in the movies… you had blonde hair, back then?” When he thought of modern-day Hollywood, that was what came to mind: an endless parade of bottle-blonde young actresses. He could only hope it was a fair excuse for why he wouldn’t have put her name to her face right away.

Her smile turned brittle and her eyes went remote. Looked like the gamble hadn’t paid off. He scrambled for one more last-ditch effort. “...and I know you aren’t proud of who you were in those days, but you followed your dreams, and you’ve grown up to become a strong, compassionate woman, putting your effort and resources into helping others.” 

Her grip on his hand tightened almost painfully, and her features pinched, showing fine lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth. Unconscious reactions, he was nearly certain. He was hitting home with something. He rubbed what he could reach of her hand with his thumb, and the comforting gesture felt more natural than he expected.

“Making up for past mistakes -- I really admire that in a person. You’re doing a good thing, here, Ms. DeWard. Funding the hospital renovations will touch so many people’s lives, all because you care enough to help bring it about.”

He was sincere in every word, but could tell he was still falling flat. His ability to rouse and inspire with stirring words had deserted him in his time of need. The winning smile he attempted felt like a jagged crack in his face. This must be the mirror image of how forced hers had looked to him.

“Perhaps I am,” she said, wistfully. A smile was never supposed to be so sad. She looked like the spirit had gone out of her. “And you’re just too pure to be real. It does mean something, coming from such a stalwart. But I’m afraid you still have me at a disadvantage, my dear. Last I heard, introductions are a courtesy most typically returned--”

“Oh, of course,” he hastened to rectify. “I’m so sorry, how very rude of me. Steve--”

“--even if I’m not the most traditional kind of girl.”

Great, now he was talking over her. Then her last statement filtered through and registered.

“--ens.” 

His heart hammered. He sucked in a breath. “Roger. Stevens. With the Maria Stark Foundation. A pleasure to meet you,” he stammered, struggling to regain his composure after riding out the landslide of emotional switchbacks.

He managed to slip his palm around into hers and transform it into a proper handshake, raising and lowering their joined hands one time, precise and solemn, as if the introductions had proceeded smoothly, the nerve-fraying detour erased. They studied one another. A veil had lifted, unmasking her clear, wide eyes, the fine curve of her slightly parted lips, the _pentimento_ beneath her flawlessly painted face. Neither made any attempt to unclasp their hands.

Bracing her free hand on the edge of her seat, she leaned toward him, bringing their faces very close. He could appreciate the expensive subtleties of her scents -- a floral note, something enticingly tangy, and a touch of mint on her softly fanning breath. Oh, they were co-conspirators, now, sharing secrets.

“Your Bond could use some practice, but I assure you, loverboy, the pleasure is equally mine,” she intimated, pure seduction under inky, sweeping lashes. She swayed in to brush their cheeks together, just barely, the dangling jewels of her eardrops tapping the edge of his jaw, and a bolt of heat shivered through him. “You have more of a Captain America quality about you, and he’s always been _much_ more my type.”

Ahh. There was not a single thing for Roger to find unflattering about that. Who could get anything but an ego boost out of being directly compared to Cap?

He wrapped his free hand around the back of her head, exerting firm but careful pressure to urge the turn and tilt he wanted. Nosing a few strands of silky hair out of the way up and around the outer arch of her ear, he situated his lips so his breath would blow teasingly across.

“Straight shooter, never pulls his punches, hottest, hardest flagpole in the land?” he growled. He could feel her breathing quicken, the rhythmic press of her chest against his forearm where their linked hands were confined within the close space of their bodies. It rushed to his head, revved up his blood, her willingness to give over to his lead. Before he pulled back, he couldn’t resist a nibble at her bedizened earlobe, the cushiony bit of flesh carrying the bite of tiny teeth in its stone-encrusted gold. 

Only their nearness made her secret reactions unhidden, the almost silent hitch of breath and lighting fine tremor drawn out by the touch of his lips, the way it set her small hairs to rise.

“Decided to take me up on that little taste, after all?” _Mmm_ , that throaty rasp to her voice, out in the open and hidden from no one, he had done that, too. It was a savory morsel feeding his pride and whetting his hunger even more, making him want to gorge himself on all the ways he could inflame her with his sensual attentions.

“Looks that way, always assuming the offer’s still open.”

She slipped off her stool, taking him to his feet along with her. In her low heels, they were almost exactly of a height. Her eyes danced and glittered with the most enticing kinds of trouble. 

“Open, if you think you can fill it,” she taunted, finally cutting their contact, sliding her hand free of his and gripping her other forearm low by her waist. It might have almost been demure if any other thing in her posture were rounded or relaxed, but she was all lines and angles, facing him square with her feet at hip-width, shoulders back, and chin tipped up.

Fuck, yeah, he could.

Not bothering to button his suit jacket, he skimmed it back with his elbows, his thumbs remaining outside his pockets as he tucked his fingers into the tops, holding the fabric of his slacks spread taut over the bulge of his groin. He wasn’t hard yet, just starting to fill out some, but in any state, he had plenty there worth drawing attention to. 

A dark, possessive thrill unfurled through his chest. Roger was used to being free-wheeling and spontaneous, but always remaining in control. Starla DeWard was outside of his experience and, frankly, probably out of his league, but so help him, he knew he could use his body to wring the pleasure from hers, to light them up and appease the depths of their lusts.

“Only if you think you can take me,” he challenged right back. This was a chance of a lifetime, and like hell was he going to walk away from it. 

She broke her attention away only for long enough to signal the bartender out of his near-camouflage once more. “Put these on my tab, please,” she instructed, with a flick of her hand toward their untouched drinks. 

Then she grinned at Roger, all hood and wolf. ”I have the private lounge reserved. Let's find out what kind of funding you can _raise_ , Roger Stevens. Oh, and-- you should call me Starla. Since I am about to be _starring_ in your wildest fantasies."

Hooooly mother, what a woman. He’d never been so thankful that he was at liberty to accept her proposition. 

“Lead the way, Ms.-- Starla.” 

She shot him a sidelong glance, but he kept his poker face, unwilling to reveal whether that had been a slipup or a deliberate provocation. “Lead the way” evidently denoted placing her hand in the small of his back and escorting him across the restaurant floor, all but emptied out at this point, till they reached the kitchen corridor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Oklahoma Land Rush of 1889 (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Land_Rush_of_1889) is a reasonably major event in US History. When I was thinking about Steve's response to the pickup line about a claim being staked on him, the Land Rush is what came right to my mind. In looking it up, I found that it did indeed involve what I thought I remembered, even though I couldn't have given a great amount of detail the exact year.
> 
> Steve, I definitely assume to know his US history. I, on the other hand, am a terrible student of history. So if this is a reference that I could pull from my own memory, then I thought it fair to consider that Steve's educated and very intelligent conversation partner would also be able to recognize what he was talking about and banter back with him about it.


	3. Chapter 3

Stepping inside the closer quarters of the hallway was like descending from mountaintop rarefied air to the rowdiness and bustle of the city. All the sensory input was intensified and weighted, the air thick with clatter, heat, smells that clotted into taste, and noisy reverberations vibrating through the walls and floor

“Last rest stop through the desert, so if you need to do your business… I’m going to use the little girls’--”

She hairy-eyed the restroom door, and the eating implement displayed in block white upon its placard, sighing loudly.

“--little _spoons_ ’? Sorry, boys, only sometimes,” she drawled, disappearing into the ladies’ room with a flounce.

Roger bit his cheek against a smile at her indignation, and the images it put in his head. He had just met Starla, but he could already imagine the row if anyone tried to use gender roles to dictate her behavior. Blazing eyes and wrathful, self-righteous fury, standing over a vanquished foe, that’s what he saw. Woe betide that man -- or fellow woman, for that matter. It was a mistake he planned not to make.

Unsurprisingly, the next door down also featured a piece of cutlery.

Starla might like flouting rules and stereotypes, but her potty break took way longer than he’d needed to get his knife out and take a leak. He slouched against the wall halfway in between till she reappeared, directing him to a flight of stairs located further down the hallway. Here, the construction shifted from metal to wood, and the hollow tread of their footsteps became spatter-edged echoes blooming up around them at every riser.

At the top of the stairs, she produced a tiny, flat clutch purse from inside her jacket, and pulled out a key. The door was dark-stained with an opaquely frosted window in the upper half; he boxed her in as she unlocked it, covering her back, fitting his fingers around her ribcage, and circling his hips lewdly against her skirt. His dick stirred, starting to search out what was underneath. “Appetizers,” he murmured into the back of her neck, tantalizing his lips with the flutter of goosebumps over her skin and feeling his own prickle up in a hot shiver of sympathetic response.

She crowded back into him, dropping her head backward in a dangling trust fall onto his shoulder. Her gel-pieced hair brushed scratchy-soft above his collar, and her long inhale at his pulse point felt like air sucking out of his own lungs. The door clicked open and she left him with a teasing scrape of teeth at the corner of his jaw, pushing off and righting herself in a snapping arc that ground her ass against his groin, steadied on his hands like the dip and raise of an impromptu pas de deux.

He’d noted no objections, there, to a little spooning.

Inside the room, it was a much-moderated version of the main level, still glassy and modern, but leaning toward eggshell-whites and warmer lighting. Afternoon sun shone in narrow stripes around the edges of honeycomb-shaded windows that made up most of one wall, and slatted wood substituted for the metal-framed furnishings. To their right, a futon-style couch and several similar chairs, along with a giant, cushioned papasan, were arranged in a grouping with two glass-topped coffee tables. A coordinating dinette, set for two, was tucked into the back corner. To their left along the wall was a small bar that appeared to be stocked only with basic supplies.

Tossing her small purse to the couch, Starla kicked off her shoes and shimmied out of her jacket with a hum and an exaggerated stretch and twine of very nicely toned arms above her head, then chucked the garment onto the cushions as well.

A strip-tease, was it? Roger wouldn’t mind that, seeing her unpeel and reveal herself, inch by what he was sure would be breathtaking inch. 

“Nice to get out of those. I feel so much freer,” she said, her gaze roving over him in a way that seemed both suggestive and a suggestion. He acceded to the hint, taking his sweet time about removing his suit jacket, knowing the movement showed off some of his best features: without ending up oversized and baggy, there was no way his shirts could be cut generously enough to avoid a pucker at the middle buttons when he opened up his chest, and his sleeves always rounded out snugly across his biceps. 

He strolled to the couch, bending over slightly to lay the jacket across the top. Bending further as he emptied his pockets of wallet and keys, he set those and his cell phone down, too, very much aware that the excellent fit of his trousers did similar things to accentuate the curves of his ass. 

Finally straightening, he unbuttoned his shirt sleeves and rolled them back exactly twice over each forearm. He glanced up. Yeah. He had Starla’s undivided attention. Her pink tongue swiped out along her upper lip, then dawdled at the corner. Her lipstick was unmarred, the expensive stuff. By the time he was done, he’d have her chewing it off herself.

Catlike and slinky, she moseyed over. He could almost see the tail up behind her, twitching at the tip. She reeled him in by the tie, one-handed, then worked the knot a few inches down his neck, and undid his top two buttons, the oval edges of her nails tapping dangerously at his throat. He felt hypersensitized, flushed and broken out in a light sweat, hot under the literal collar.

“There. That’ll do nicely.” She started a slow stalk around him, like sensual, dragging tango steps. “So let me tell you how this is going to go.”

He followed the heat of her body, not worrying about swiveling his head to do it with his eyes.

To his left. Her hand raked through his hair, tightening near the roots to tug dully at his scalp.

“Now, you see, ordinarily…”

Behind him. She skated knuckles down the back of his shoulder, into the twitchy muscles at the base of his spine, and grabbed a generous portion of the glutes he’d been flaunting.

“...the person receiving the check would be the one getting bent over.”

He swallowed hard.

Around his other side. One fingernail trailing across his palm in a spiking tickle that jumped to his throat, his stomach, his cock, in lightspeed streaks, making him jitter and hiss.

“But in my case…”

His eyes had fallen closed; he was antenna-tuned to her proximity, just breathing into the startling, inflammatory touches.

She traced the blue veins at his bared inner wrist, setting him off in a cascade of fine shivers.

“...it’s you I want bending me over, and…”

And god, fuck, _yes_ , the things she was _saying_ were hits that crackled through his nerves every bit as much. 

Full circle, in front of him once again. Infiltrating fingers slipped inside his waistband to rest against the tails of his shirt, just one cotton broadcloth layer away from his skin, and directly over the hot liquid swirl of arousal in his belly.

“...making this a dirty little back-door affair.” 

_So_ hot, he was gonna--

She curled her grip around his belt buckle, and it pulled at the crotch of his slacks, dug his inseam up into his balls.

He went stock-still, thighs buttressed and knees locked. His quivering abs pushed against her fingers with every quick, shallow breath, and his cock was rock hard, straining upward, the head probably an inch out of reach from bumping her hand.

Her hold released; his balls were grateful. His dick was on a rampage.

“Open your eyes and look at me.” He did. Her cheeks were bright, even through the makeup, and the sight of her was like the red-on-black void behind his eyelids brought to animate form. 

She pushed both hands down her body from chest to mid thigh, pausing at the apex of her legs to triangle her thumbs obscenely. “ _Nnnnnnhhh_ ,” she groaned, her eyes closed and face contorted in an open-mouthed display of unappeased want.

Fuck, she was filthy, she was magnificent; he _exulted_ in the serendipity of finding a fellow pervert. Roger goddamn _loved_ sex, the freedom of unrestrained lust, the hedonistic joy of burying his body in another, using its power to take pleasure, to give it, to stoke and slake every wanton desire. Plowing into the dense, dark earth, soaking it till it stuck and clodded, sowing his seed in lush, fecund fields. 

He was going to put that expression back on her because he’d sated every measure of her want, left her glutted with it, filled and fulfilled her to overflowing. 

He swallowed again, salivating like a damned Pavlov dog. Gave himself a shake like one, and remembered the trick of speaking, if half an octave lower than normal.

“You got yourself a deal, Starla. First class _service_ at the table in back, and then you write a check to the Foundation for every penny I was worth.”

He bared his canines. He could hardly wait to be her whore. 

“I think I can trust you not to scrimp on the tip.”

She laughed, deep and throaty, and leaned down to retrieve -- something? -- a couple of small items, maybe -- from out of her purse. A shiny corner caught the light in a quick flare before she secreted whatever-it-was out of sight down the front of her dress. _Sexy_.

Then she turned on her heel, blew a kiss over her shoulder, and sashayed off with a swing to her hips and a swish to her skirt, every inch the manic, gleeful coquette. Roger would call it a calculated tease, but it wasn’t. Well, the calculated part, that sure was. They both knew how to put on a show. But a tease, no. A prelude, a promise, and it was definitely having the desired effect, keeping him on the hook, hard, hot and bothered, and primed to take off in pursuit.

He made himself stand and appreciate the view till she was across the big area rug in a spread-legged stance behind the tall papasan chair, wrapping her hands over the arching top of its frame and bending at the waist with her head between her arms, a sinful dip to her back, and her ass cocked to the sky. The drape of her skirt hinted at outlines, long thighs with plenty of space left between, and the ripe curves she’d dressed down, now all played up. 

What a mouth-watering, pretty picture. Full points for presentation. He’d wish for a camera, but he didn’t need it. She was clay for him to wet-sculpt, with his hands and his mouth and his cock.

That bamboo wasn’t going to be anything like enough to brace her, but no matter; his muscles weren’t just for the gym. He’d hold her exactly where he needed her.

He gave his pent-up dick a few long rubs, a shot of friction he could just about taste, rippling down and getting his hips warm and loose and his pants tighter than ever. His eyes stayed locked on target, ten feet away.

Wouldn’t want to let a lady feel like she wasn’t wanted. He’d let her set her stage, and she was a fuckin’ showstopper. Looked like time she took a volunteer from this audience of one. 

“Yeah, come and get me, tiger.” She egged him on as he pushed off and covered the ground between them in rangy strides. His simmer flared to a rowdy boil; he planted himself behind her, took her by the hips and dragged her against the tented front of his crotch, gave her a good preview of what he was gonna put in her.

She was all game, pushing right back, but the give and spread of her cheeks was hampered by infuriating layers of cloth that blocked him from where he wanted to be, deeply cradled within her cleft. 

“Gonna get on with it, big man? Not gonna earn the zeros you want through all these clothes.” 

“Zero to six figures it is, then.”

“Don’t sell yourself short. Do me right, and we could be talking seven, if you’d get out that fat cock and earn that fat check.”

All their talk of service and earning was a power play, and Roger knew how this one worked. It was power that built on itself; not the kind where more for one meant less for the other, but the kind where more for one meant more for both.

He gathered the skirt into bunches at the sides and hitched it up; it fell back over his arms as he stuck his hands beneath, smoothing his way up silk-covered thighs to the tops of her stockings. He skimmed his fingers under the bands, slipping them around toward the sensitive skin at the insides, and she shifted in place, trembling minutely and setting loose an unintelligible low sound that rose to a jump and gasp when he pulled at the clipped-on garter straps, giving them a snap.

It was his hands, not his head, working under there in the tropical damp, but his nostrils flared, his breath hanging dense in his chest anyway, all within the radius of their sweltry local weather system.

“Ha, gotcha,” he razzed, following the straps up higher, seeking the demarcation line of lace or satin along her hipbones, up and up, of course they’d be skimpy, maybe a little nothing-string thing he’d be taking home for a prize. His questing fingers found the lower points of her garter belt and she had to be shitting him--

He rucked the dress back up above her waist to the sight of nothing but miles of elaborately criss-crossing gold straps and high, tight bare buttocks. Jesus fucking god, the goddamn little minx had waltzed right into this ritzy joint with no panties on.

She twisted over her shoulder, her face gleaming in triumph at the discovery of her gambit, the sleek hollows at the sides of her hips flexing as she shook her rampant bare ass in a brassy burlesque.

Here as every part of her he’d seen, she was lean and spare, smoothly fleshed without a scrap of extra, and he already couldn’t get enough. He swore some more and stopped breathing and ran his hands greedily over all that harnessed-in skin, circling and dimpling it with his thumbs. 

He could hear her breathing, heavy and hoarse to match his own. 

“You gonna thank me for making your job easier?” That tone of voice promised _consequences_ if he didn’t.

“Hell yeah. Thanks, Starla. Way to go with the empress’s new undies,” he gritted out. 

She went right past acerbic and straight to acid bath. “I meant by getting those pants off, finally.”

She was right (she was always going to be right, he was learning fast); the room was a sauna, the tailored slacks were cut two sizes too small, and he had to get himself out of the damned things. 

“Here, hold this,” he ordered rhetorically, stuffing the back hem of the skirt under the upper straps of the garter belt. It distorted the fancy-ass design, but kept Starla’s fancier-actual-ass on display. 

Priorities; that was one accounted for. He moved on to addressing the next, jerking his belt and fly open with just enough care to keep the zipper teeth clear of his briefs, distended over his bulging erection. With his slacks gaping, he pulled the waistband of the underwear clear, wrapping a steadying fist around the base of his cock as it bounced free. It turned into one corkscrewing stroke up his full length, sullen-burn dry all the way to the smeary pre-come shining up the crown, the rough drag skidding up his spine like a saw blade throwing off sparks. 

He rasped out an equally saw-toothed groan, letting his dick bob free between his shirt tails, taking both layers of pants in both hands, and shoving them down his legs, belatedly heeling off his shoes, and kicking everything off in a pile.

 _Shit, fuck_. Barring a miracle, this was all just about to crash and burn. “So, uh. Starla.” He ran a hand around the inside of his collar, belatedly remembering it had been open practically since they’d walked in. He felt like he was strangling.

"Roger.”

“You know I didn't come here expecting this. You got something, or should I just spit on it?” he was talking sheer bravado and bullshit. Sounded hot as hell, speaking strictly of sex-fantasy, but he would never.

Her laugh rang out. “Guess it’s a good thing one of us came ready.” She reached a hand down into her dress and pulled out the items she’d stashed there before, passing two packets back to him. “That’s for you. When I say ‘came ready,’ well, I guess you’d know, if you’d gotten anywhere near putting anything in me yet.”

There was his miracle. Lube and condom, had to be. He dropped them to the floor near his feet with barely a glance, just dying to know if “came ready” meant what he thought it just possibly might. 

“Lemme fix that.” He was moving before he finished speaking, getting a hand between her cheeks to check, and she moaned at the contact, and _hotwetslick_ , _oh fuck yeah_ , girl shoulda been a damn boy scout; let’s see just how _prepared_ she was. He spread her open and got his first peek at her shiny pink hole, glistening with abundant lube, and more shiny streaks where he’d just slopped it around. 

Her restless hips went rolling right along with him when he rubbed the whole side of his hand up and down along her crack in a warm and sticky-smooth, wet-smacking arc, catching on the thicker, puckered skin of her rim in both directions, and feeling more slick leaking out to spread around with every pass.

Hell, he guessed now he knew what had taken her so long in the bathroom, and it wasn’t just “girl things.” He’d been right there in the hallway, while she’d been standing in one of the stalls with slicked up fingers up her hole, working the lube in and probably stretching herself… it was an almost unbearable turn-on. His dick twitched and beaded up another drop of pre-come, drooling just like he was. 

Speaking of stretching… He held her open from the left, thumb hooking deep into her crease; folded all but his first two right fingers, and circled them around her rim, finding it soft and giving and dragging open when he pulled the pads down across. A barely adjusted angle had the middle one pressing right in, and her hole took it down to the last knuckle in a loose, careless slide, no resistance at all. 

He backed it out with a little swivel on the way and went right for two. Those went up in there just about as easy, her mouthy hole practically sucking them in, and her noises all airing her approval, lewd and lovely: “damn, I’m wet for you,” and “yeah, get in there,” and “good, _ahhh_ , good hands.”

“That’s right, you got me in you. Fingers first, make sure you got plenty of room in here.”

Palm up, he two-fingered her in a mellow rhythm -- in, and scissor them around, and back till just before the tips would pop out -- and then the same with three. He could probably have given her his dick anytime then, but it was just so soft-walled and clinging inside there, and she was twisting and turning and screwing herself down on him, all choked up and cursing in strings of “harder, fuck, more,” and “ream me out, damn you,” and wordless grunts and whines, so he got a little pushy, and slipped in number four. 

Now he had the natural backstop at the wide part of his knuckles as a base for shorter, sharper jabs, and he shuffled to the left to come at her from an angle, fucking his cock against her hip in counterpoint, and getting better leverage for all of it. He scooped up her insides with his hand, putting his thumb up over her tailbone like her asshole was a grip to lift her by, while his dick rubbed and rasped over crumpled up skirt satin that his drippings were spot-dying darker.

When he pulled out, his hand was soaked, and wet sounds came from both ends of her, like ass and mouth were in agreement toward keeping him in, in. 

“Just a minute longer. You’re all ready for me. Just gotta slick up.”

He turned his face and swiped the sweat off his forehead, and could feel the rings spreading under his arms. They smelled, they reeked, of metal and salt, arousal and exertion and unholy carnal sin, and Roger was flying on it.

He bent down to grab up the packets, bringing the square silver one to his teeth.

“Hey, hot stuff,” Starla called to him, velvet-smoky-sweet, and he should have known right there that something monstrous was afoot. 

He aborted his bite. “Yeah, honey, that’s me.”

“You ever go bareback?”

Roger’s mouth flooded with saliva and the raw, desperate ache of want. His tongue suctioned to the roof of his mouth, way back where it turned into his soft palate, and then peeled off with a click and a loud liquid pop.

Of all the breadth of his sexual adventures it was the unspoken threshold he never crossed. But fuck, he couldn’t help but be led, just a footstep, into the deep, dark, well of temptation. “I… _nnnnnnnggghhhh_ …” He’d been going to say _no, never, not on your life_ , and that sound was all that had made it out.

“What was that? High-priced stud like you, I’m sure you know as well as I do how to keep yourself nice and... clean. And no babies to be made in my asshole any more than yours.” 

He stared at her, bent over on the chair frame, just waiting for his cock. His cock that she wanted bare, wanted with nothing between them, wanted to be filled with his come, to walk away from here with it leaking from her fucked-out hole, even more obscene than how she’d walked in leaking lube.

She’d left the pause to set up her _coup de grace_. “Just remember. It’s for _such_ a good cause.”

Like every charismatic criminal, she hatched out her plots with the heinous voice of reason. Tell him, what man could resist her deviltry… _for such a good cause…_

The foil fell from his fingers. His pulse was tripping in his chest and his temples and his dick, standing up in front of him. His teeth tore into the other packet, and he spat out the strip he ripped off, pushing with his thumb to work the lube out the open end. He added it in with the stuff already coating his right hand, and then, with the same wet-skin squelch in a slightly different pitch, transferred the whole mess onto his dick in long sloppy strokes up the shaft and curling over the head, bucking into his own fist because he was so damn ready to fuck.

“Here we go, here it comes, you ready for this?” He gave her fair warning.

He dropped the empty packet and got up against her hips and this time there was nothing in the way -- _nothing_.

“Been readyyyy _ohhhhh_ ,” she gasped out

His thumbs pulled her open, and his shaft sank in along the length of her crack like his hand from before, only now it was her sweaty, fleshy cheeks he was squeezing together around his thick cock. 

A savage impulse, towering and avaricious, went marauding through his skull, rushing in his ears and blotting out his brain. He rose to his toes with a snap of his hips, dropped to a slight bend of his knees, slid his shaft up and down between her cheeks and felt her pick up his rhythm. 

Rising heat flared through him in a sizzling, full-body flush.

“Oh, fuck, oh, god, you feel that, you feel me riding your wet hole, letting you feel what’s going in you?”

“ _Hn_ , yeah, would you, fuck, just get in and fuck me.”

That sounded like the good, riled-up and driven-to-distraction, kind of frustrated impatience, and she was about to get everything she was asking for.

Grabbing himself with his right hand up high on the shaft, he slapped his cockhead down right over her tailbone, and dragged down into her cleft. A droplet of precome spilled from his slit in a liquid burst, smearing thickly between them, distinct even above the lighter wetness of the lube. He guided himself to line up with her hole, and pushed, feeling the loosened rim give softly under his bluntness, then stretch open around the head of his cock, till he breached, falling in and in and in like being swallowed by a sinkhole. He bottomed out in one endless, wet, sweet glide. holding there with his groin tight to her ass, run through by an uncontrollable pins-and-needles shudder.

"Roger, fuuuuuck,” Starla moaned, shoving back as if he had any more length to give her. “You’re in me so deep I feel like I swallowed you.”

God, there was something so filthy and sleazy about doing anal this way with a woman, having the kind of sex he would usually have with another man. 

That sense of the forbidden heightened everything for him, making him feel like he could cheat the world to take something he wanted for himself.

He took a deep, shaky breath, and then another, pulling out and pressing back in, slowly. Such an easy, easy slide, but perfectly close and snug, the sharp, bright pleasure centered in his cock, and buzzing and tingling outward to every extremity. 

“C’mon, _go, go, go_ ,” she chanted, and he ramped it up, gathering her in his hold and setting a rhythm of long, driving strokes, getting them down to fucking in earnest. The tail of his tie was aswing in front of him, and he freed up a hand for the instant he needed to fling it over his shoulder. With it out of the way, he watched, mesmerized by the sight of her wide-stretched rim sucking down his dick to disappear between her cheeks. 

The high-octane dirty talk fell by the wayside, replaced by harsh breathing and wet-slapping bodies, broken up with moans and groans, curses and gasps and growls, the language of raw sexual indulgence. 

And indulge, he did, immersed in the world of dark, molten sensual response: the propulsive movement of his muscles and limbs; the heated clutch and bare, thin-liquid slide of Starla’s body enrobing and moving with his; the constant friction dragging along his cock from root to tip, keeping him hot-wired with a humming thread of current. 

Their musk and perspiration commingled in the air till it seemed like he could taste her, even though this sex hadn’t been about mouths or kissing.

He pushed the pace, adding a quick snap at the end of his strokes, and varying it up with a hard grind every few. His lips pulled back in a snarl. She was getting it how she needed it, making chopped-off noises and clenching down around him each time he buried himself to the hilt and nailed her with a string of quick, jabbing thrusts before drawing back to his full length again.

Everything was damp, their hair and clothing hanging heavy and trickling with sweat. The thin white of his shirt had gone onion-skin transparent across parts of his chest and shoulders, her dress darkening in patches where he gripped her flank and splayed a hand over her stomach. 

Under the cloth, he felt a small, hard lump resting along the divot of her solar plexus. He outlined it with his thumb, finding the shape of the secret she wore against her skin, and felt her quake. Through a fold of fabric, he curled his hand into a fist around it, rubbing at the token as he rammed into her. Right now, he owned her, secrets and all.

Changing over to a shorter, sharper rhythm, he ran both arms further up her front and took double handfuls of her chest, unconcerned if he mauled the top half of her dress into the same condition as the bottom. He felt the satin snag as he sank his fingertips into the thick flesh surrounding her nipples, squeezing and kneading, and massaged their peaky points in circles and rolling pinches. She pushed into his hands, and he was spurred by the faster kick of her hips.

He hunched in and rode her hard, breathing heavy over the back of her neck, and driving them higher. The new angle set Starla writhing and jolting like she’d been hit with an electrical shock, groaning loud and deep, and bucking back against him erratically in frantic response. 

The urgency was building for him, too, his dick throbbing and his balls tight, that dizzying euphoric flush lighting him all over again. Both their breaths were coming more and more ragged. 

“Fuck, it’s good, so good,” she rasped. “You close? You gotta be, so huge all the way up in me, feels like you keep getting bigger and harder like one of those pump-up fuck toys.”

So eloquent, god, her mouth was vulgar and gorgeous. “Close, yeah, but--” 

“Steve-ens… _Roger_ , Roger, dammit, fuck, oh god, I want you to go first, blow your load in me, shoot me up with your hot come, c’mon, _do it!”_

Roger was more a finish-last kind of nice guy, but he didn’t bother feeling conflicted. If she was that gung-ho for him to go first, who the fuck was he to deny? His dick was white hot iron and he plastered himself over her, hammered into her hard, chasing down his release with pounding thrusts, to the sounds of her frenetic urgings. 

He was a pressure chamber, steam mounting fuller and higher, boiling to a head, and… He blew, clamping down around her, crying out and pulsing and spurting, shuddering through the aftershocks till he felt peeled inside-out by the force of his orgasm.

She barely let him catch his breath before she wanted more. “Oh, god, _shitshitshit_ , you’re spectacular, now get down there and lick me clean and finish me off with your mouth.”

Roger pulled out, not even yet all the way soft. His knees hit the rug. His cock was smeared and sticky. He spread her open and lapped at the trickle of his come already oozing its way out after him. The earthy, bitter brine tasted better than any haughty cuisine. He speared his tongue into her loosened-up hole and licked his way around, stirring her into a nonstop torrent of whining breaths and whimpering moans. 

Hands banding her hips to hold her right where he wanted, he stretched his jaw and sealed his lips in a wide _O_ to suck on her open ass, licking up her crack in broad, scouring stripes, and stabbing his tongue back in to clean her all out and play around in there.

When he pulled his face out of her backside, they were both spit-shined.

He surged up, tugging down her bedraggled skirt and taking her by the waist. “Turn around,” he directed, hardly giving her time to comply before he half-manhandled her into facing him. Her lashes were clumped, her lipstick chewed, and her lips dented with the marks of her bite. 

“Where--” 

“Here.” He set her shoulders against the chair frame and folded back down, ducking his head into the brackish, steamy tent under her skirt. Palms on her silk-covered thighs, he dove in from this side, getting his mouth around her parts. She was wet and swollen for him, slick, hot, and nasty with her drippings.

“Earning the bucks… superstud…” She upped the stakes. “Make it… double if you… come again… so I can see…”

He had it in him, but not before hers.

He redoubled his efforts, slurping and tonguing her all up and down, her crotch thrusting fast and frenzied into his face. She was whipping winds, rising in pitch to a storm warning, till the air sucked out and she stalled and flooded slick, groaning deep and guttural, and gushing a hot splash across his face. 

Jesus, fuck, he’d heard of it, but never been with a woman who came that way. 

Gut-punched with a new wave of arousal, his cock leapt back to life so fast it made his head spin. He took himself in hand, jacking mercilessly while he mouthed her through her orgasm till she was trembling and tucking her hips back and babbling out, “Fuck, fuck, fuck, enough, nomore…” in chunks like broken brickwork.

He flipped her skirt up and stuffed it under some straps, stripping his dick in punishing strokes and grunting roughly till he brute-forced the second, burning orgasm from his balls, pointing himself at her legs and jizz-striping her silk stockings as she stared, open-mouthed.

His rictus resolved to the grin of a madman.Covered in spit and slick and sweat and spunk, disgusting and debauched and pridefully puffed up, Roger Stevens was living out his purpose on this planet.

“How’s that for a money shot, boss lady?”

She erupted into peals of laughter that proved contagious. When their last guffaws died down, she stretched elaborately, and settled with an elbow resting across the top of the papasan and a hip cocked, looking deliciously fucked out and relaxed. “Oh, baby. Consider my account _drained_.”

 _Damn straight._ He nodded, satisfied, and got to his feet. Stopping to pick up the heap of his discarded clothing, he trailed a few steps behind as they made their way back over to the couch, availing himself of one last opportunity to admire her truly fantastic legs and ass.

She took another slim packet from her purse and pulled out a moist towelette, offering one to him, as well. He accepted, setting his things down to the side.

“I suppose we could always use the napkins,” she said, tipping her head toward the dining table, where large cloth squares were folded into tall triangles over the plates. She gave him a wink. “...but let’s not be uncouth.”

“Fine upstanding, all the way,” he confirmed. The look they exchanged was conspiratorial and amused. Roger was a little surprised at how companionable this was, laid-back and completely lacking in any post-coital awkwardness, devoid of all the earlier gamesmanship and tension. Having moved past their contentious meeting, he and Starla seemed _simpatico_. In another life, he thought, they might have been friends.

They spent a few moments freshening up, dropping the used wipes into a waste-paper basket tucked between the couch and one of the side tables. 

He stepped into his briefs and adjusted himself as she worked her tucked-up skirt free of the garter belt and dropped it down. She wriggled her hips to shake it out, and pressed her hands down the front, making a moue at its bedraggled state.

"Ah, sorry about…” He gestured toward the once-glamorous dress, rife with snags, creases, and stains.

She rolled her eyes in mock exasperation and waved him off. “Don’t spare it a thought. Totally worth it. You were so good, I can’t even take it out of your check. Besides, it’s tacky to wear these things more than once, anyway.”

His own slacks were a little wrinkled, but not terribly the worse for wear, and would cover his fluid-streaked shirt tails, which had not fared as well. They both had jackets, which had remained out of the line of fire, and would help maintain some semblance of dignity on the way out, too. Starla had slipped into hers, and with a small grimace, was wiggling her stocking-clad feet back into her shoes.

He caught himself watching her again, as she took out a tube of lipstick and a sliver of mirror, dabbing on a touch-up. She replaced those in her purse, then the purse in her inner pocket.

“Oh! I almost forgot.” Her hand came out of her pocket with something else balled up. She tossed it to Roger, a snippet of red winging its way over, unfurling in the air to loop over his fingers.

It was a vivid red g-string.

The reapplication of a little red lipstick had brought her fangs back out, the lilt to her voice dipping and swaying like a viper

“I took this off in the bathroom. Thought you might like to take it home, maybe give it to your wife. _It smells like me._ ”

 _Husband, actually_ , he almost responded by reflex, the previous phrase the one he’d fixed upon despite her final theatrical hiss. It was a correction he still had to make fairly frequently to people who assumed when they saw his ring -- especially when his marriage was one of the heart, not yet one of the law. _Someday--_

He remembered just in time, just before he misspoke: his wife’s name was Janet, their arrangement was open, and Starla didn’t know any of that about Roger anyway. 

Bringing the scrap to his nose, he inhaled deeply of the musky scent trapped in the fabric.

She smirked. “Happy Anniversary, dear.” She was just toying with him again, both snake and charmer. 

It wasn’t an hour ago he’d thought he might end up with just this kind of tiny trophy to take home. Finding her in no panties at all the very moment later had been hot as fuck, but now he also regretted not having seen what the single line of red would have looked like amidst the gold. Making this her parting gift -- it was almost like she’d read his mind. Well, he supposed it wasn’t all that unusual a kink.

He gave her a little salute as he tucked the panties into a trouser pocket.

She looked like she was ready to go; but for his own shoes, tie, and jacket, the work of a minute or two, they both had themselves reassembled.

Glancing toward the door, she hesitated, then sighed, her face softening as she moved toward him instead. She slid his tie back around to the front, unsnarling the ends and performing some complicated origami that resulted in a knot much more ornate than his usual Windsor. She snugged it up to his neck and smoothed down his collar, then laid her hands over his shoulders.

The fondness in her expression sent a silvery little pang through his chest, suspending him in an odd moment of anticipation. She leaned in and brushed her lips at the corner of his mouth, barely a touch, and his heart contracted again. Under all the pungency, she still smelled sweet.

She turned away, and the moment was broken. He licked at the corner of his mouth, tasting the faintest trace of wax.

Maybe he’d see her again. Maybe at the dedication ceremony, or there’d be some kind of function to honor the benefactors… But no. Roger knew better. Janet’s repeat-client relationship with François-the-fitness-trainer wasn't the same. He and Starla were from different worlds. It was best to leave things like this one-and-done, equal-opportunity wham-bam-thank-you-sir-and-ma’am, a gratifying experience for all, with no expectations and no--

He fingered the tidbit in his pocket, and amended. No other kinds of strings.

He could still… He cleared his throat. “Starla--”

She looked over her shoulder, and at least he didn’t turn into a pillar of salt. 

“Would you like me to walk you out?”

She bowed her forehead into one hand. When she looked up, she had her inscrutable mask back in place. “Such a gentleman. But no, thank you, Roger. I’ll be fine. Don’t forget, I’m richer than god. I could walk out of here butt naked, and by tomorrow, bare-ass dining would be the nobody-if-you’re-not-doing-it new trend and they’d be cleaning skid marks off the seats.”

 _Ha_. That was his girl. Crude as ever, a real crass act. 

So that was it, then. She walked to the door, reached for the knob -- then made an abrupt detour, veering off toward the bar on the same wall, disappearing behind it briefly, and reappeared, holding two bottles of water.

“Hey Roger--”

She lobbed one his way, and he caught it by reflex. Now that he thought about it, he was parched. And for that matter, famished.

“You should at least drink some water. I hear you missed lunch.”


	4. Chapter 4

Steve wiped a smear of pasta sauce from Tony’s hairless upper lip, then sucked it from his thumb. “I still can’t believe you shaved it all off.” 

He’d returned after finishing his deskwork at SHIELD earlier, to have Tony emerge from the workshop to greet him, his bare face all the more startling now that he was out of his dress and makeup and otherwise looking like himself again. Their kiss hello had been spirited, but definitely missing its usual piquant bristliness.

“It won’t take too long to grow back,” Tony said, unconcerned, running his thumb and fingers along his bare chin, where, sure enough, Steve could already make out a faint trace of new stubble growth. “I could’ve used an image inducer, I guess, but what’s the fun in that?” He shrugged with one shoulder, the arm holding his fork, waving it in the air. “Sometimes the old-fashioned way is just… I wanted it to be  _ me_, even though I was all done up. So, spa and makeover, it was!”

“Look at you, admitting there’s a time when you prefer organic to tech,” Steve ribbed him. “I’m writing this down!”

“Yeah, better make sure you remember the date,” Tony joshed him right back, nudging the other elbow into his side.

Steve absorbed it with a quiet  _ oof_, rocking a little sideways, pleasantly full and weighted with the good food in his belly.

Back in well-worn house clothes and stocking feet, they sprawled comfortably shoulder to shoulder, sunken into their overstuffed sofa, with nearly empty plates across their knees. The coffee table in front of them was laden with serving dishes and containers holding the remains of their feast, an eclectic combination of barbecue, Italian, and sushi, favorites they’d indulged with mixed portions and exchanging tasty bites.

“I’ll tell you what  _ I _ can’t believe -- you didn’t go in and look up the file before your meeting!”

“Your briefing was thorough,” Steve defended. “There wasn’t anything else I needed to know.”

“Except I thought the game was up right there, when you started questioning why I knew so much about Starla!”

“It’s your own fault your backstory was so detailed!”

“Ok, so I might have outdone myself, just a little,” Tony conceded, reaching for Steve’s plate and stacking it atop his own when Steve passed it over, setting them both on the table. “You want coffee and dessert now, or save it for later?”

Steve thought of the rich chocolate cake in the refrigerator. Even with his near-bottomless pit of an appetite, he’d enjoy it more after some time to digest. “Later, if you don’t mind. I’m pretty stuffed.” He rubbed his stomach. “This was so good, Tony. Everything. Thank you for a great day.”

Tony had stood, and was bustling around, doing a quick sorting of dirty dishes to the sink, empty food containers to trash and recycling, and closing up boxes still containing edible portions.

“My pleasure, babe.” He leaned down to meet Steve’s lips in another whiskerless kiss.

Steve could be happy not moving, but it wasn’t fair to let Tony do all the work. Defying gravity to push up from the couch, he grabbed the boxes of leftovers and ferried them to the fridge.

By tacit agreement, they left the dishes for morning. Steve turned down the lights and lit a few candles around the room while Tony started some slow classical strings playing, and they flopped back down. The moment it was available, Tony flung one long leg, shapely in soft, faded denim, across Steve’s lap, and Steve laced their fingers together, resting their entwined hands on Tony’s thigh, glad to see Tony’s ring back in in its place.

“So this morning, when you got all jittery--” Steve prompted, picking up the thread.

“Shit, I was afraid I’d already blown the whole thing! I had to think on my feet. When you thought Starla’s backstory was bringing up bad memories, it gave me an out. I’m sorry for the subterfuge.” He caught Steve’s eye at that, his sincerity apparent. Steve gave him a squeeze just above the ankle and left his other hand there, wordless reassurance that the white lie had done them no harm.

“Wasn’t that why you did it that way, though, to keep me from looking too closely into the DeWards?

Tony looked smug. “Aha, see, that part, I was actually prepared for. Here, let me--”

He gently disengaged their hands, making grabby motions toward the notebook computer sitting in standby mode on the end table to Steve’s left. Once Steve had disconnected the power cord and handed it over, Tony propped it on his leg between them and lifted up the screen. Opening a web browser to the StarkSearch page, he typed, “DeWard family,” then clicked through a few of the links in the listed search results, showing Steve the information on the various internet sites.

Most of them showed photographs of the same palatial mansion, with variations on the family’s biographical information and portraits. There were digitized versions of a couple of tabloid articles sensationalizing Starla’s exploits, and even several movie posters with the name of “Starla Anne DeWard” prominently featured above the titles.

“Of course if you investigated too far, you’d have found the holes, but--”

Steve was boggled. His husband never ceased to amaze him. “You did all of this, just to back up your character? How long have you been planning this?”

“A couple of weeks? Whatever day the lunch went in your schedule.” He closed the computer and handed it back to Steve to replace on the table. 

“Always six steps ahead, aren’t you.” Steve shook his head, ruffling Tony’s hair.

“My alter-ego had to be someone worthy of Roger Stevens. You put a lot of thought into him, too.” Tony ducked his head into Steve’s hand, endearingly trying to duck out of the compliment.

“Tony, that’s not--” How did he think they even compared? “Roger Stevens is my name switched around, and a couple of anecdotes about his imaginary sex life. You created an entire history and dossier!”

“So? Starla’s name is just a slightly more complicated play on Stark, Anthony Edward.”

Steve thought about it for a minute, moving his lips silently as he turned over the names till it clicked. “Oh my god. I feel like I should have seen it. But I know I would never have made the connection.”

“To be fair, I had to work on that one for a while. My name’s not as easy as yours.”

“I think you just couldn’t resist the chance to one-up me,” Steve challenged him.

“Ok, you got me. Also had to one-up you a little. Come on, let’s face it. We’re both pretty competitive guys.”

“That’s true, yes we are.”

The post-meal lethargy was passing, and Steve enjoyed Tony’s animated gestures, the way he talked with his whole body, the back-and-forth zing of their conversation in quips and darting caresses. 

“But really, mostly, I just wanted to do something that would be a nice surprise and thrill for you, and, uh, Roger. I kinda like that guy, you know. Got a  _ mouth _ on him!”

“You like his mouth on  _ you_,” Steve muttered, giving Tony a quick shake by the back of the neck on the way to extending the arm around his shoulder. “You want to talk about surprised… Make that blindsided, ambushed…” he bullet-pointed each with a tap of his thumb against Tony’s shoulder blade.

Tony huffed. “Painted myself right into a corner, is what I did. You were supposed to recognize me, Steven!”

The soft lamplight and candles flickering in colored glass jars cast a warm glow, but had nothing to do with the heat that flooded Steve’s face to the neck. “You set up your red herring too plausibly! I wasn’t expecting it  _ at all _ \-- and the way she-- you-- were acting!” Even after seeing Tony through the elaborate costume, Starla had been vivid enough to feel like she was her own person. “‘USDA Prime, consider your claim  _ steaked_,’ Tony?”

“Ok, pot, kettle, let’s talk about Oklahoma claim jumpers when someone’s hitting on you! And then you give the scandalous socialite a Captain America speech?”

“I thought I needed to make Starla feel good about supporting the hospital!”

Tony’s head fell to his shoulder, nuzzling in warmly. “Ah, it’s what makes you so good, working with the Foundation, sweetheart. You make every donor feel like they’re worth more than just their dollars. But while you were doing that--” 

“Hey!” Steve caught the hard poke to the chest, pressing Tony’s hand to his heart, trapping its thump between them.

“--I was dropping hints, almost at the point where I thought I was going to have to either give up on the whole sexcapade, or just tell you outright, and I really didn’t want to do either.”

“Sorry. I know I can be a little blindered once I see something a certain way. Or don’t see it.” He slid his hand up from Tony’s shoulder to play with the hair around his ear, which waved down softly as usual now that it was washed free of the gel that had spiked it earlier.

Tony hummed appreciatively. “My stubborn, steadfast Steve. Good thing you had a not-traditional kind of girl to knock it through your thick noggin.”

“Good thing you said that,” Steve agreed gruffly, somewhat embarrassed all over again. “It finally clicked, why she-- you-- were coming on so strong, and why you kept harping on me for not recognizing you--”

“Oh my god, you were trying so  _ haaard!"_ Tony cracked.

Steve scowled around a smile and raised his voice just enough to override it, ready to move on from that topic even though he’d brought it up himself. “...why kissing the back of my hand was so damn…”

Tony slipped his hand out from under Steve’s, lifting it to lay lips to knuckles and demonstrate anew, and raising the same lush, melting heat from Steve’s chest to his loins. 

“ _Tony_ …”

“It was my Hail Mary, hoping you’d remember some of what you said last year,” Tony said soberly, with a pause to leave another soft-lipped kiss on Steve’s knuckles, then turning over his hand to end with one more on the inside of his wrist. 

“What Roger said.”

“Hm?” 

“Roger said it,” Steve corrected. He took on a laconic cadence, quoting: “'I hear a blowjob is a traditional kind of apology, and--'” Tony joined in, and they finished the phrase together, intent on one another’s eyes. “'--I’m a traditional kind of guy.'”

“--who thinks he might have room for dessert now.” Steve rolled it into the segue, patting his stomach and then Tony’s leg. “You?”

Tony obligingly retracted his leg from Steve’s lap, standing with him and stretching, arched with his hands clasped behind his back. His t-shirt rode up; Steve’s eyes fell to the lovely strip of defined stomach revealed above the low-riding waistband of his jeans, and he made no attempt to hide it.

When he looked up again, Tony winked at him. “Have your cake and eat it?” 

Steve’s cheeks pulled with his smile. “Yes, please.” It was a given that the night was leading to that kind of dessert, sometime after this one, and there was no hurry. He knew he was a very lucky man.

A plaintive tenor sax floated up in a long, searching call as Steve took out the cake boxes; Tony had stopped to switch the music for some smoky instrumental jazz. Plates and forks added percussion. Steve drizzled out some raspberry sauce and slid a slice of cheesecake over to Tony, double checking, “And you want whichever I’m not having, right, so it’s an excuse to steal bites?”

“Yes, I want to  _ share_,” Tony reframed, reaching around him to swipe his finger through a rosette of ganache atop Steve’s thick wedge of chocolate, sucking it off with closed eyes and a decadent moan. When Tony’s finger was clean of the last of it, Steve took his own first bite, sinfully dense and dark with just the right hint of bitter to the sweet, and gave a heartfelt echo of the sentiment. 

“Oh!” Tony set down the two coffee mugs he’d been about to fill, and spun toward Steve, who had just returned the cakes to the refrigerator, setting a gallon jug of milk on the counter in their stead. He waited expectantly.

“I almost forgot to tell you -- the most important thing I set up in Starla’s name.”

“What’s that, Is there another web site?” He turned back to pour his glass of milk, and recapped the jug. “Wait, you didn’t make an actual movie, did you?”

“No, no, but points for wishful thinking.”

The milk went back into the refrigerator. “So…?”

Tony dug his hand into his front pocket and came out with a folded oblong of paper, molded into a curve from the contour of his body. “Here.” He handed it to Steve, who unfolded it gingerly, not sure what to expect. Some kind of gift certificate? That really wasn’t Tony’s style-- 

“Oh. Tony…” The check had a looping signature and… those were a lot of zeroes, with a two at the front. Steve looked up at him, helpless.

“Her bank account.”

“I didn’t expect…”

“Did you think I’d forget?”

“Not forget, just... by the time we got to ‘zero to six figures,’ I assumed it was a joke, all part of the setup.”

“Ah. I wouldn’t joke about that part. The hospital’s really important.”

“Yeah. Tony... “ Steve shook his head in befuddlement, at a loss for words in the face of his husband’s immense generosity. He took a breath and found the ones that mattered. “I love you so much.”

“I love you the same.” Tony leaned in and brushed the hair back from Steve’s forehead, then touched two fingers to his lips. Still reeling, Steve nibbled at their tips, then looked down at the check again. “This is--” 

“The icing on the cake?” Tony asked, with shining eyes and a lopsided grin.

It was perfect, preventing the mood from becoming any more maudlin. “Yes. Exactly.”

“Good. That’s all I wanted for today. Now come feed me some anniversary cake!”

Steve anchored the check securely to the refrigerator with a magnet shaped like his shield at one end, and one of the Iron Man helmet at the other. Their avatars would keep it safe till he could personally deliver it to the Foundation’s business office the next day.

Coffee poured, and two trips juggling plates and cups later, they were resettled and savoring sweet, delicious bites, feeding each other by fork and by hand. 

In the low music and candlelight, attended by the the swirling, carnal memories from that day and a year removed, the room wrapped close around them. 

When the plates were empty, they tasted the remnants on each other’s tongues. 

Finally, Steve drew back from his beautifully mussed husband, the sofa too small for his welling desire and love. He stood and reached for Tony’s hands, bringing him to his feet.

“Let me take you to bed, honey? No Starla, no Roger, just the two of us.” 

“You’re already thinking about how to top it next year, aren’t you?” Tony teased, hushed.

Steve dipped his head. “Competitive… you said it. But not tonight.” It was time for all the clever falsehoods to be tucked away.

“No. But a year to plot and plan... I think we’ve made our own tradition!”

Playfully, Steve turned Tony around, engulfing him from behind with their arms linked and crossed in front, legs bumping as he shuffled them off.

Tonight would end in the haven of their bed, their hearts and bodies bare and naming each other true -- the best tradition of all.

**Author's Note:**

> **Additional Content Notes:**
> 
> This story contains **no het sex, no infidelity, and no pairings other than Steve/Tony.**  
>  However, it is intentionally written with a high degree of ambiguity, and readers who do not prefer those elements might find it uncomfortable.


End file.
